by Tim Ayliffe
He touched the skin where three of his fingernails used to be, but he didn’t look at them. He didn’t want Dexter to see.
‘Jesus, Bailey!’
‘I will talk about it with you. Can we just not do it now?’
Tears left two neat trails down her cheeks. ‘I’m . . . I’m so sorry, John.’
‘Anyway, I’m good. Took a while, but I’m almost there – back where I want to be.’
Almost.
‘I just never really mastered how to do this.’ He was pointing his finger at Dexter and back at himself. ‘How to be, you know, us.’
She walked towards him and rested her head on his chest. ‘You hurt me, Bailey.’
He put his arms around her.
‘I’m done feeling sorry for myself.’
Doctor Jane would have been proud of him. If only she had been here with her notebook.
They walked back up the wharf in silence.
‘So, what now?’ Bailey said when they reached the roadside.
‘One step at a time, boyo.’
‘Actually, I meant what now with Davis, and Catherine Chamberlain.’
‘I know. I was teasing.’
‘Well played. So, what now?’
‘When’s the last time you wore a tuxedo?’ Dexter had a mischievous expression on her face.
‘Black tie? Gerald’s birthday a few years back.’
‘Tonight could be a good time to dust it off.’
‘What are you playing at?’
‘Cocktail party for Davis, the politician in waiting, I’ve got a plus one.’
‘This could be interesting.’
CHAPTER 17
Foreign ambassadors are sent out into the world to sell a positive message about their country to anyone who’ll listen. That means going to a lot of parties. So when John Bailey got his hands on the guest list for the launch of David Davis’s new political life, he was banking on a very important freeloader being invited.
And he was right.
Chinese Ambassador Li Chen was already in Sydney for the event and, not surprisingly, had managed to squeeze in a lunch down by the water at Circular Quay with some rich Chinese investors he’d been helping to tip their millions into Sydney’s surging residential property market.
A bunch of Sydney real estate agents were sitting with them, their glossy brochures spread across the table. One of the guys from The Journal’s property section had told Gerald about the gathering – real estate agents always told the papers because it helped them pump up the market – so he’d sent Bailey down for a look.
The ambassador was clicking his fingers at a waiter, pointing to his empty wine glass, when Bailey walked past his table with a beer in his hand. Two seafood platters were set in the middle with oysters, lobsters, dozens of rings of grilled calamari, and chunks of whatever white fish was in season. It smelled good – almost as good as the pie Bailey had just thrown back at Woolloomooloo. Almost.
Bailey found an empty stool by the edge of the water and sat down. The angle of his chair meant that he had a good view of the mostly Chinese men in suits enjoying lunch, as well as the ferries sailing in and out of the quay. Bailey wanted to get a good look at Ambassador Li Chen in action – to see if he was the kind of guy who could be involved in the murder of an innocent girl. That was a journalist’s job sometimes – to observe.
Not all diplomats were entertainers, but Ambassador Li was made for it. He was holding court with the type of stories that drew laughter from the rich men’s club. Bailey couldn’t decide whether he looked more like a B-Grade actor or a used car salesman.
It wasn’t long before Li was holding up his empty wine glass again, searching for a waiter. He wasn’t having much success. Tired of being ignored, he stood up, slammed his glass on the table and started walking towards the outdoor bar on the other side of the restaurant. By the time he got there he was waving his hands around, remonstrating with the barman and pointing at all the empty glasses.
Bailey kept watching, wondering how the moment might play out, quietly hoping for a security guard to step in and turn it into a diplomatic incident.
Wishful thinking.
The restaurant knew exactly who was dining at that table today and, like most of Sydney, they wanted the Chinese money to keep flowing.
An overweight man in a black leather jacket and loose jeans appeared at the bar and touched the ambassador on the arm, surprising him in a way that caused him to stumble backwards. By the way the man was dressed, Bailey could tell that he wasn’t one of the men from the ambassador’s table.
Ambassador Li’s shoulders slumped and he looked like he was almost being deferential. The other guy had his back to Bailey, making it impossible to see his face. But he could tell that he was important. His left hand was gripped tightly around the arm of the ambassador, creasing his suit coat, and he was leaning forward, speaking right in his face.
The conversation lasted for less than a minute before the fat guy let go of Ambassador Li’s arm, patted him on the shoulder, and walked back through the restaurant, away from Bailey. When he joined the pedestrian thoroughfare that cut through the restaurants, he turned briefly to let someone pass. Bailey caught the side of his face – Chinese, round cheeks, black sunglasses, a neat part in his hair. But Bailey wouldn’t be able to identify him in a line-up, if it ever came to that.
Bailey looked back at the bar where the ambassador was still standing, straightening his jacket, trying to compose himself. Eventually, he picked two bottles of white wine off the bar and walked towards his lunch table with a forced smile on his face, looking like he’d just seen a ghost.
CHAPTER 18
Iraq, unknown location
Bailey had stopped feeling hungry. It was only water that he craved now.
He was too dehydrated to sweat, despite the intense heat blanketing his body inside his hard metal cocoon. Each breath delivered a sharp pain, his lungs struggling to filter the fumes and dust leaking inside. His head was pounding from the rifle butt they had used to knock him out when they threw him into the car.
They were bouncing along a road somewhere in Iraq and Bailey’s skeletal frame was smashing into the hard edges of the boot.
He had been moved so many times since Fallujah that he’d lost all sense of geography. Disorientated by a constant thirst and hunger, he had even lost count of the days.
Trapped in the foetal position, he could barely move. His hands and feet were fastened tightly together with plastic zip ties. He could tell they were plastic because of the way they sliced into his skin.
A warm pool of blood had formed beneath his head. He shifted so that he could at least feel the mess on the floor and get a sense of how much blood he’d lost – a survival instinct for a man who, despite everything, still wanted to live.
Everything mattered now.
The wetness was confined to a small sticky area below his cheek and he could feel a dried patch on his face. The bleeding had stopped. Relief.
Bailey could just make out the sound of male voices over the rattle and hum of the engine – two, maybe three – and they appeared to be having an argument. He wanted to close his eyes, but the fear of not waking up kept him lucid.
Stay awake. Whatever you do, stay awake.
The white strobing moonlight flickered through a crack in the boot. The crunching of the tyres told Bailey they were driving on a dirt road. He hadn’t heard any other cars and was feeling more alone with every rotation of the wheels.
The car skidded to a stop. Voices fell silent. Doors opened, then closed. Footsteps slapped the ground outside and around the back.
They were coming for him.
The boot opened. It was a full moon and the stars in the sky offered Bailey a brief moment of beauty in hell. He couldn’t see the faces of the three men standing over him, only their shiny thick beards and the white in their eyes.
‘Hello, dog!’ a man said in Arabic.
‘Wait!’ A different voice. He steppe
d in front of the others and pointed his gun at Bailey. Closer. Until he rested the barrel on his temple.
Click.
The pistol wasn’t loaded.
Bailey shuddered. The fear in his eyes was what they wanted. His life was cheap. The man with the gun was God.
‘Hahahahaha!’ The three men danced around the car, hysterical.
Their laughter only lasted a few seconds.
‘Imbeciles!’ A fourth man had joined them. ‘Get him out.’
The men clumsily grabbed Bailey, pulling him from the car and dropping him on the dirt.
‘Cut him loose.’
They cut the zip ties from his hands and feet.
‘Stand up, Mr Bailey.’ The man switched to English.
Bailey recognised the voice, and the hard eyes glowing in the darkness.
‘It’s been a while, my friend. How are you?’
The posh English accent made the acid in Bailey’s stomach churn. He remembered being forced to watch the execution of the US marine. He went to speak, but could only cough, his dry throat preventing the words from forming.
‘Here, my friend.’ The man handed him a bottle of water. ‘Drink.’
Bailey snatched it, fumbling with the lid in a rush to get the liquid inside. He gulped at the bottle, spilling some of the water on his chin and down his neck.
‘I know you,’ Bailey spluttered.
‘You think you know me, Mr Bailey.’ The tone in his voice always calm. ‘You don’t know me.’
He was a murderer.
‘From the room.’ Bailey took another sip of water. ‘The marine. You sadistic –’
‘Yes, yes, I remember.’ He stepped closer. Bailey could see his face. ‘A long time ago now, Mr Bailey. A long time to think. A long time to hate.’
It didn’t seem long ago to Bailey. He could see Douglas McKenzie’s severed head like it was yesterday. ‘Where am I?’
‘Do you still hate, Mr Bailey?’ the man taunted him. ‘Do you know that since the day we were last together eleven thousand Iraqi civilians have died? Collateral damage, they say. Is this what freedom looks like?’
‘I’m a fucking journalist, not a marine.’ Bailey’s gravelly voice sounded more like a growl.
‘Yes, yes, Mr Bailey. We’ve been over this. We know all about you.’
‘Where am I?’
‘You’re in Baghdad.’
‘Baghdad? Why am I here?’
The man touched Bailey’s chin, lifting his head so their eyes could meet. ‘Because your time has come.’
Bailey felt a sudden panic. ‘What do you mean?’ He didn’t want to be the next Douglas McKenzie.
‘It’s time for you to hear my story.’
‘What’re you talking about?’
‘Soon.’ The man turned and started walking away. ‘See you soon. It’ll be different for you here.’
The man barked an order to the others in Arabic and disappeared into the night.
‘I’m talking to you!’ Bailey shouted out after him. ‘What am I doing here? What am I doing here?’
Bailey felt someone shaking his shoulder. He was lying, sweating and mumbling to himself, on the couch in his overturned townhouse.
‘Dad, wake up! Dad?’
Disorientated, he opened his eyes. ‘Hey?’
‘It’s okay, Dad.’ She gently stroked his shoulder. ‘It’s me . . . it’s Miranda.’
As Bailey focused his eyes, he could see his daughter’s shiny blonde hair dangling across her cheek. ‘Sweetheart?’
‘That’s right, Dad. It’s me. It’s Miranda.’
Bailey sat up and rubbed his eyes. ‘Bugger!’ He was angry with himself for having those extra beers down at Circular Quay before stopping by his house. ‘We were supposed to meet. I’m sorry. I just closed my eyes for a minute.’
‘It’s okay, Dad.’
‘What time is it?’ He looked out the window and could tell it was getting close to dark.
‘It’s almost five o’clock.’
He held out his hand, Miranda took it and sat down beside him.
‘Dad?’
‘Yes, sweetheart.’
‘What happened here? It looks like you’ve been robbed.’
‘Long story.’
‘I feel like you’ve got a few of those. We need to talk.’
‘We do. Sorry . . . sorry for standing you up.’
‘You didn’t stand me up, Dad. I called your office, they said you hadn’t been in all day. Tried your mobile and no answer. So I thought I’d do the old-fashioned thing and pop in. The door was open.’
‘Glad you did.’ He put his arm around her and kissed her forehead. ‘I need a shower, then let’s talk.’
‘I’ll make some coffee.’ Miranda walked into the kitchen, stepping over broken bowls and plates, searching through the mess for a kettle and two cups that had survived the break-in.
After his shower, Bailey rummaged through the clothes that some prick had spread across the floor of his bedroom until he found a white shirt. The political function with Dexter was a black tie affair and he was determined to look the part. His crumpled dinner suit was there too, somehow still attached to a coat hanger. It would have to do.
He was running low on sleep but the shower had boosted his energy. Cleanly shaven, he was staring at himself in the mirror, struggling to fix his bowtie, when Miranda called out from the door.
‘Dad? I’ve got your coffee. You decent?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The bat wing, hey?’ She was trying not to laugh. ‘Need some help?’
‘Desperately.’
‘I can’t remember the last time I saw you clean shaven.’
‘Yeah. Simple things were never my strong suit.’
‘Where are you off to anyway?’
‘Work function.’ He didn’t want to announce that he was going to a political campaign launch for the police commissioner when he still suspected his house might be bugged.
Miranda looked at her father’s face in the mirror, turning the ends of the tie in her hands. His tanned skin, dark brown eyes, the weathered creases of his brow. He smiled at her and the lines spread to his cheeks.
‘It’s nice to see you smile.’
‘What do you mean? I’m always smiling with you.’
‘Your eyes, Dad, the happiness in your eyes. I don’t see it. Not enough, anyway.’
She finished tying the knot and gently shifted the tips until the tie was straight. She looked up again and noticed her father staring at her, his smile already gone.
‘You sounded like you were having a bad dream earlier.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes. Have them often?’
‘From time to time.’
‘Dad?’ She paused. ‘What happened to you all those years ago?’
He knew it was a question Miranda had been wanting to ask him for years, but he had always found a way to shut it down.
Bailey walked out of the bathroom.
‘One day you need to talk to me.’ Her voice followed him. ‘I want to know. I think I need to know.’
‘Okay.’ Bailey tapped his hand on the bed. They sat down together.
After his conversation with Dexter at the Finger Wharf, today was confession day. Bailey owed it to his daughter to at least tell her something.
‘It was a bad time, Miranda. Beirut, Iraq, the first time. Those were tough years. Nothing like the evil in that place now. So much hate. No solutions, either.’
‘I mean you, Dad.’ She put her hand over his. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Where do I start?’ Bailey was trying not to sound serious. He was worried that sharing too much would drive her away.
‘Your messages, phone calls, even letters, they were always random, but there was contact, then it all just stopped. I didn’t hear from you for almost a year and when I finally did you spoke to me like you were . . . empty, childlike. Do you even remember?’
‘I should never have called you out of t
he blue like that.’
But he’d needed to hear her voice.
‘That’s not what I meant. I loved that you called me.’
‘Timing wasn’t good.’ Bailey was speaking without looking at her. ‘It was the timing that was a bad idea. I just . . . I just –’
‘Just what? Dad?’
‘I needed to hear you, hear you speak, hear what you sounded like.’
‘What happened? You can talk to me.’
Bailey let out a long breath, contemplating how much he’d share.
‘I was kidnapped and tortured.’
Too much.
‘What? What do you mean, tortured?’ Miranda’s voice cracked, her eyes glistening with sorrow.
‘Sweetheart, you don’t need to hear this stuff.’ And he didn’t want to tell it. The details were better inside, contained.
‘How long did they have you?’
But sitting side by side with his daughter, Bailey didn’t have much choice. ‘Ten months.’
‘Ten months!’
‘You really don’t need to hear about this.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘It’s over, all in the past.’
‘C’mon, Dad. I need to know. I think I –’
‘No, you don’t. Some things are better left. It achieves nothing.’
‘Have you spoken to anyone about it?’
‘Shrinks? I’ve had plenty of those. Gerald booked me a gentle genius in London.’ The sessions with Genevieve, or whatever her name was, were a disaster. ‘Got one here too, Doctor Jane. She’s better than the others. Anyway, I’ve done my talking, unpacking the pain. I’m getting better.’
‘What about when you sleep? You were mumbling something about Baghdad on the couch when I got here. Doesn’t sound like you’ve dealt with it to me.’
He wished she would stop. Miranda was the one person he couldn’t tell to piss off and she was digging into a place he didn’t let anyone go.
‘I don’t think you ever do, to be honest. You just learn to live with it – and that’s what I’m doing. Spending time with you helps, helps a lot. Makes me smile. Even my eyes.’
Bailey squeezed his daughter’s hand again, let go, and got up off the bed.
